Understanding
by Perfume
Summary: Molly Hooper and her new flatmate. A difficult time for the both of them but hopefully an understanding can be reached? (Post S2; pre S3)


Molly Hooper was at the end of her rope or at the last of her endurance.

Molly Hooper never thought she would know what it felt like to be John Watson.

Molly Hooper was learning what it was like to be John Watson, and what it was like to harbor a headache—both mentally and physically.

Like every morning, she sat in her small flat, peering over the contents of the morning paper with a cup of tea. However, since three months ago, her mornings had been accompanied by a face that liked to take up the front of the paper time and time again: Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. Presumed dead at the moment, until he decided to make himself known…whenever that was.

She would never forget the day when he came to her, asking for help. Him, the man who had all the answers! She was flabbergasted. _Why?_ He looked straight into her eyes and explained everything, down to the very last detail, of what he wanted to accomplish. From that moment she knew that there was a bond, something small that had been overlooked by the two of them but was now blossoming in the privacy of this lab—unfortunately over dire circumstances.

And so, here he was a fall, a funeral, and a few months later. In the first month she saw little of him—flittering in and out of her flat. She had asked him if it was wise to be going out in public without a disguise. He gave her an odd look and simply questioned, 'who said anything about going out in public'? A cheeky response, but she did not know how to press any further. _Him and those cheeky remarks!_

She often thought Sherlock was a man of little feelings and little interest to the world around him. He hid behind that façade so firmly that it was not until the day in the lab did she figure out how wrong she was. The way his eyes looked upon someone with so much care and respect, she had never seen him look at her like that. It made her feel jealous.

Molly was not feeling jealous anymore, on the contrary, she was getting annoyed. After he had stopped going out during the first month, he would find solace in a chair that occupied the window. He sat in it so often that the seat began to wear away. She asked him to find another chair; he said he preferred this one and that all the others would suffer the same fate. He also said that she should buy new furniture. He would also read the paper while seated in that chair. His eyes would draw attention to the articles in particular describing the case of his 'death' and the mentions of John Watson… anything linked to him, really.

So now, they sat in her tiny kitchen. He was always up early, waiting for her to finish the paper while he was working away at his breakfast. Oh, yes, she always had to prepare a breakfast for the two of them. Heaven help her if she forgot…

"Have you finished with the paper yet?" He asked her, finishing off the last of his toast.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she responded, familiar with his odd way of greeting her. "I take it that the toast was fine?"

He lifted a shoulder in indifference. "I have now since learned that the toaster that you are currently using is quite old and cooks everything at the same temperature. Perhaps you should get a new one?"

Molly grimaced. That was the problem of housing Sherlock: the local bills for food, water, etc. had increased. "It's only me working, Sherlock. If you got a job..."

"That's why I need the paper," he responded, "A job, case… something to make me feel useful."

"How can you work on cases? You're supposed to be dead," she said, now losing interest in the paper. He quickly took it from her and flipped to a page that he studied quite attentively.

"Ah, but that's the joy of anonymous tips and calls," he said with a tight smile. "You don't need a face to do that, do you?"

"I guess not," she said, not really thinking about that option. "But, you're able to solve a case by the paper? And get paid?"

"Who says said anything about getting paid?" He asked her, continuing to scan the various articles. "I just said I needed a case." Molly was flabbergasted. She took a deep breath and then let it out, concentrating on the clock on the wall. It was getting closer to the moment that she would have to leave for work.

With a flick of his fingers, the paper skidded across the table. "Nothing," he muttered. Molly stood up, taking her dishes to the sink, washing them off before putting them in the dishwasher. Sometimes, Sherlock was like a dog, she would leave him alone for a few hours and when she would come home, he would have something dragged out. Something usually that ended up irritating her, like usual.

* * *

Molly came home to the sound of silence. "Sherlock?" She called, flicking on the light to the flat. Moving into the small living room, she was surprised to see him seated on the ground amidst dozens of board games. There were notes scribbled on sheets of paper.

"What are you doing?" She asked.

"Playing a game," he replied.

Cluedo was the game currently in front of him. "You do realize," she began, sitting her things down slowly, "that the game is a mystery game…"

"I've played it before; I got angry at it and put a knife through it." He said it so casually that she had to blink once or twice. "Now that I am forced to play it, and by myself, I can inspect the various variables and outcomes. I have now re-written the game according to how it should be played."

Molly said nothing. All she knew was that all the board games in her flat were destroyed with his re-envisioning. "Will they be playable after you're done?" She prompted.

"No," he replied, lifting his head up to meet her gaze. "Once you solved the mystery, it'd be a bit boring to try to solve it again. Once it's solved, it's solved." He stared at her in such a way that reminded her of an adult trying to make sense to a child. However, she was no child. If anything, Sherlock was the child in her eyes.

She was done with having him destroy things in her house; telling her to get new furniture and appliances. She wanted nothing more than to boot Sherlock out of her flat and tell him to fend for himself. She was done playing nanny. "Sherlock, just because you destroyed your life doesn't mean you can destroy mine!" Her outburst was so unlike her that she almost did not recognize her own voice. Once it was said, she wanted to take it back. Yet she meant it.

Sherlock said nothing but continued to stare at her. Was he more shocked over how apt her words were or was he more shocked on little Molly Hooper making such a remark? Either way, he sat up a bit straighter and studied her.

"That's—that's not what I meant," she began, lifting a hand in the air to try to wave away the words as if they continued to remain between them.

"No, Molly," he cut her off, "I know _exactly_ what you meant. However," he said, his eyes narrowing, "_I_ didn't destroy my life."

"It came out wrong, I'm sorry. I know… it's just… I'm tired, Sherlock. I don't mind helping you, really. But don't you think you could help me?"

Sherlock considered this for a moment. Molly felt it was too awkward having him stare at her in silence so she took a backwards step and bashfully ducked her head. "I'm going to go make supper." She left the room hastily, wishing to erase what had just transpired.

As Molly worked on supper, she found her hands were incapable of the task at hand. She had never gotten so angry at Sherlock, or any one for that matter. But it was the truth: she was feeling overwhelmed and misused. Sherlock taking apart her board games for his sheer pleasure without any thought towards her (and if anybody else was to play them again) was the tip of her boiling level.

She felt a presence near her. Sherlock had come to her side and was now busying himself with the food she had laid out. She said nothing but continued on, ignoring him the best she could. It was when he was already steps ahead of her in preparation that she knew that he was to take full control of cooking the meal for the night. She stopped in what she was dong and continued to watch him. He was no cook, but he could become one simply by the way of observing things and making them come together.

Molly moved away from the counter and sat down in her chair that she normally took. She wanted to say something. But perhaps silence is what they needed at this moment.


End file.
